


In This Universe

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Category: Prison Break
Genre: Other, Self-cest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-19
Updated: 2011-04-19
Packaged: 2017-10-18 09:44:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/187569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Places and time and time-lines colliding, and he once happened to face himself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In This Universe

**Author's Note:**

  * For [foxriverinmate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxriverinmate/gifts).



> A while ago, I posted [a fic meme](http://clair-de-lune.livejournal.com/291936.html) asking what you would make me write if you could. Someone replied Michael Scofield/Wentworth Miller... I don’t do Real People Fic in any way, shape or form. Michael Scofield/Michael Scofield, though? Can try. This is a weird one, obviously, but not nearly as smutty as it could have been expected.

There was a theory stating that each time we made a choice, a new alternate universe was created.

Michael Scofield experienced this first-hand.

Places and time and time-lines colliding, and he once happened to face himself. A slightly younger, slightly groggy self, lying half-conscious and half-delirious on a small bunk in that damn warehouse in Los Angeles. Almost him but not quite. Him before what he became, him before what he could have become, another possibility of him. He sat down by the bed and checked himself, concerned with the paleness of his face and the faint trace of dried blood rimming his left nostril. His fingers grabbed his chin and turned his face to the right and then to the left on the thin pillow, the light stubble on the cheeks grazing his fingertips. His hands palpated his chest and stomach, slipped under the blue shirt and bumped into the leather belt. They started their exploration looking for injuries – didn’t find any – and ended it up brushing over strangely smooth and warm skin. Did his own skin really feel that smooth and warm? Did Sara find it as pleasant as he did right now? Did Lincoln? What about Vee years ago or Donna back in high school? Or...

He’d never really thought about himself in terms of attractiveness. He objectively looked good, knew it, had used it on multiple occasions in the same way he’d used his brain, his education or his knowledge. A mere tool, useful like a tool should be.

It was both him and not him lying here. It was both weird and normal to feel sorry and affectionate for that version of himself. It was both right and wrong to let his hand wander down. Right and wrong, right or wrong, he couldn’t help it anyway, hardly _thought_ about what he was doing. Just wanted to make him, make himself, feel better. He stroked himself through the rough jeans; felt himself stir and harden, heard himself gasp in his half-sleep, saw his own confused look, leaned down and, with barely an hesitation, kissed his own lips when they parted in surprised pleasure. It felt good – he ought to know what felt good, right?

The version of him lying down tried to speak or maybe shout. Either out of shock, incomprehension, pleasure, or a mixture of all of that. He muzzled himself with a soothing “Shh!” and a crooked, reassuring smirk. As he surrendered to himself, he could read in the blue eyes staring at him the effect said smirk had on the other people in his life. How and why they reacted to it the way they did, how unfair yet useful it was – another tool. There was such a subtle difference between seeing it on a picture or in a mirror, and watching it for real.

He almost felt bad. He would have felt bad – cross his heart – if the course of events had turned out really sour. Even though he didn’t think anymore than the end justified the means.

There was a theory stating that each time we made a choice, a new alternate universe was created. Since he was here, a slightly older, slightly wiser version of the man lying on a small bunk in that damn warehouse in Los Angeles, at some point, at some crossroad, he _had_ to have made the right one.

-End-

  
\--Feedback is a slightly scary thought in this case, but still appreciated ;)


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